Moments before I devoured it.

I know where the leprechaun is

The Coast is Clear

Refreshing

The Google is watching you.

The Pump House

The Invisible Man

He's actually quite a contortionist. After a few minutes of begging
for a pose, I was finally able to convince him to twist his body for
the camera. No small feat. In exchange for the photo, I agreed to wait
for the next bus so that he could board and be on his way.

Prepare to be sodomized!

Summer is just around the bend.

I've always wanted to carry a briefcase.

Nothing says "success" like a smart looking briefcase made of fine leather. At least, not in my mind.

I would walk to work at a brisk pace as evidenced by the rapid pendulum swing of my left arm; my right arm would remain motionless from the anchor of importance and status. Time is money.

My initials, my monogram, would be neatly inscribed on a gold plate with a carefully chosen font to express my subtle, yet powerful identity.

In social situations, I would make it a point to examine the contents of my briefcase from time to time. Perhaps I would shuffle a few documents around or scribble a note before closing the lid and checking my watch. People would undoubtedly admire my Protestant work ethic: "He must be a very powerful and influential man," they would think.

Along my daily route, I would stop to admire the wares displayed prominently in the window of a well-kept antique shop. The little time capsules would arouse my imagination as I reflect on the craftsmanship and care that went into producing them, recreating the historical context of a time lost.

Alas, the weight of my briefcase would bring me back to the present, reminding me of the tasks and projects that lie ahead. I would take a moment to admire the reflection of my briefcase juxtaposed against my naked and bleeding body. Then I would go.

It's going to be a lovely year.

Or thoroughly evil, depending on your perspective.

In case it was not obvious

Now you know for sure.

A Random Observation from Yesterday!

I noticed a gentleman carrying around a jar of two pickles yesterday. What wonderful little treats to have floating around in a jar! It only occurred to me after he had gone, however, that perhaps those weren't pickles after all.

What if, upon closer inspection, they turned out to be tiny infant's arms with the hands severed off?

I will never know for sure.

I ate you.

"After"

I will eat you

This is a "before" photo. Tomorrow morning, I will post the "after" photo.

Have a wonderful day.

The Coast is Not Clear

I hate fog. But especially when it parks itself along the coast and refuses to go anywhere for several hours. It does not make for the most enjoyable surfing conditions. It's like having a tall, fat man sit in front of you at the movies.  If I could have magical powers, I would control the weather and use my powers purely for my own benefit. But the world would probably end after the fist day of my reign. Trade-offs.

Autumnal ruminations

Each successive day is roughly two minutes shorter than the last, which means the post-work surfs will soon be coming to an end. Nevertheless, there is still time to beat the sun before it retires and enough light when I arrive at my destination to squeeze in those magical Civil Twilight Sessions.

Meditation #1

I thought you would be interested to know that I started meditation today. Or rather, I made an attempt at meditation…you see, I am what the Zen masters refer to as a kook.


For ten minutes (I had a timer) I sat in silence. For the duration of those minutes, I attempted to concentrate on my breathing, but found myself focusing on the pain in my lower back and neck, then on keeping my eyes closed, then on making plans for the day (including, how I should incorporate my attempts at meditation on the blog that I don’t update enough). Then I focused on my breathing again and its erratic nature. I said a few prayers of thanks because I am ecumenical. I peeked at myself several times in the mirror and remarked in my mind how serene I looked, sitting cross-legged on the floor…posing, like a poser.

The Bichon Frise

 

The Bichon Frise literally means "Curly lap dog," but in reality they are thoroughly evil minions of Satan. Should you ever encounter one in person, it's best to not to make eye contact. And you certainly shouldn't invite one into your personal space. When Goethe wrote Faust, I'm pretty sure he intended that Mephistopheles disguised himself as a Bichon Frise, and not a "poodle" as some translators have suggested.

Chillin'